


A Successful Failure

by WolffyLuna



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types
Genre: Antivan Crows, Consent Via Charades, Consentacles, Double Penetration, Other, Size Kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-01
Updated: 2019-10-01
Packaged: 2020-10-12 23:08:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,514
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20572442
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WolffyLuna/pseuds/WolffyLuna
Summary: After a failed mission, Zevran Arainai is bored and left alone with an equally bored tentacle creature.Of course something ensues.





	A Successful Failure

**Author's Note:**

  * For [heeroluva](https://archiveofourown.org/users/heeroluva/gifts).

> I hope you like this!

So, this wasn’t the _worst_ a job had gone.

Zevran sprinted down the corridor blind, as he fumbled his shirt over his head and back on to his torso.

Armed guards pursued him, dour and quiet and slowed down by their armour enough that he had _some_ lead on them-- but much less than he’d like!

Okay, it may have been up there with bad jobs, and he couldn’t think of one that had gone worst—but hey, he was a bit distracted right now.

Their mark was a known hedonist, so of course they’d only send Zevran. Rinna and Taliesen would only get in the way, this was not their speciality. And the mark _was_ a hedonist, he just was also a paranoid fuck—and in both sense of the phrase. He had the _unfortunate _tendency to assume all elves who were trying to flirt their way into his pants had been sent to kill him.

Which may have been true in this case, but it wasn’t a very reasonable assumption, now was it?

Unfortunately, his guards were many, and of a similar demeanour.

Zevran slammed open a random door, and darted through it. He just had to get to a window, or a balcony or something, and get out. Get out, not get stabbed, reassess the plan somewhere safe,

He kicked the door shut behind him.

The room was dark, with just enough light to see three steps in front of him. Clothes hung from racks scattered around the room, and boxes and cupboards lined the walls and lurked in the clothes. 

The guard’s footsteps pounded behind him.

He darted under one of the clothes racks. Vest, trousers, jacket, mysterious purple-black thing on a box, scarf—

A door loomed in front of him. He crashed through it.

Window!

He opened it, the shutters swinging all the way out and thunking on the outside walls.

He looked out.

Just across a narrow alley, sat a short flat roofed building. It was a two storey drop between there and here, all up.

He rolled his shoulders. It’d suck to jump, but he’d live to tell the tale and drink a healing potion afterwards. With the guards—well, there it was a question whether he’d get stabbed with a pike _quickly_ or _slowly_. He pur on foot up onto the window ledge.

\--Something grabbed his other ankle. Warm and cylindrical and muscular and _strong_.

He tried to pull his leg out, but no luck. Whatever it was had a tight grip, and he didn’t have much room to struggle without pitching himself out the window. (He was willing to _jump _out of the window. He drew the line and flailing and falling out.)

He turned around.

It was made of purple-black tentacles in roughly the shape of a mop, and easily the size of a guard dog. And probably stronger, too. It must have been the thing in the wardrobe, it must have followed him through the door.

It held up a tentacle, and pointed at him, and then at the window.

He jerked his foot again, trying to lever his leg out, but the thing didn’t loosen its grip.

It pointed at him and the window again.

“Yes, I am trying to leave, how very perceptive of you.”

It pointed at _itself_, and then the window again.

The footsteps behind them grew louder. The guards sounded like they were having trouble with the clothes from the clattering and the cursing behind them—but probably not enough trouble.

The creature pointed at itself, at the window, at Zev, with increasing rapidity.

“You want me to take you with me? Out the window?”

It nodded, using the centre of its mass in place of its non-existent head.

He didn’t have much choice. There was no way he was jumping out of that window with that thing grabbing onto him. At best he’d fumble the drop, and land in the alley—and his chances were noticeably worse in the alley. Two storeys: doable. Three storeys: not a thing he wanted to try.

This was a trap. There wasn’t anything else it could plausibly _be_. Creatures in marks’ houses didn’t follow you for benevolent reasons. Maybe the creature did actually want to escape—but what reason did he believe that it _had_ a motivation, and wasn’t just some puppet? Then again, would a guard-puppet grab onto an assassin and not kill him straight away? Maybe its master was cruel, and liked to draw things out—but the mark didn’t seem the type. The guards, yes, they probably found sadism amusing on some level, but as for the mark-- why torture when there is fine wine in the world? Of course, he did not have the best track record of reading and understanding the mark, it turned.

But he had no choice. Either he left with it, or didn’t leave at all.

“Well, so long as you don’t kill me or get me killed, why not?” he said with false cheer.

It nodded again, and clambered up onto his shoulder. Maker, it was heavy, but he’d jumped with heavier dead weight before.

The guards crashed through the open doorway.

Zevran jumped.

They landed on the roof. Zevran rolled awkwardly, hampered by the weight of the creature and trying not crush it. He rolled too long, and went right off the roof and into the Maker-damned alley.

He groaned. At least he’d split the fall into smaller stages? And handed fallen anything more terrible than mud. He brushed the mud off himself—and his hand came back green and with flecks of undigested hay. _Lovely_.

He staggered up right, and tried to grab the potion flask on his belt—which he’d left behind, along with his belt. _Lovelier_. He could make it back to the safe house—but the bruises would not make it a pleasant journey. He turned to the mass on his shoulder. “And how are you doing?”

It shook itself out like a wet dog, and stayed firmly attached to his shoulder.

“You’re planning on following me home?”

It didn’t even have to nod. It just gripped tighter onto his shoulder.

There was definitely no way he could break that grip. “My friends will not be pleased about that,” he said with a knowing and conspiratorial smile.

They wouldn’t be pleased about how any of this night went. At least they could take comfort in getting to stay in their nice comfy safe house, and not jump out of any third storey windows into horseshit.

He’d see if he could convince them to see it that way.

* * *

He opened the door to the safe house, carrying the creature in his arms. “Well, that wasn’t a complete disaster. I have removed one of his…” He held the creature out, and cocked his head. What was it, exactly? “…guard creatures.”

Taliesen looked up from the knives he was oiling. “Why do you have that? Why do you have that _alive_?”

“Well, it… it helped me escape. One good turn deserves another, eh?” Zevran said.

Taliesen frowned. “Not if it kills you in its sleep.”

“…Is the mark dead?” Rinna asked.

“Well, no. Failure of intel, you see.” Because, yeah, no, he was not _taking the_ _blame for this_. It should have worked! It had worked every other time! This was not his fault! “Turns out our mark does not like elves. Or maybe men. Or maybe people who try to seduce him.”

Rinna put her head into her hands. “So, he’s not dead.”

“Not for lack of trying,” he said, indignant. He set the creature down, and it slithered around, exploring.

Rinna counted off on her fingers. “He’s not dead, you’ve stolen something potentially dangerous or valuable from him, and we’re on a contract.”

“We still have plenty of time till the deadline.”

Taliesen sheathed his knives and stared up at the ceiling. “It’s not over till the fat lady get’s stabbed.”

Rinna ran her hands through her hair. “Our heads aren’t on a pike, not yet, anyway. We’ve got time. We’ll go in tomorrow night, hope his security hasn’t increased because of a _failed assassination_—” She glared at Zev.

He glared back. It was her bad intel that caused this, really. And he’d had to throw himself out a window because of it, so really it was her fault. 

“—and just stab him.”

Zev walked over to a set of drawers, pulled out a healing potion, and downed it in one. The elfroot was bitter and soapy, but it was more pleasant than bruises all over his body. “I would be _more_ than happy to help with that.”

“You’re not,” Taliesen said. “You were the one who fucked this up. I’m not taking that risk again.”

Some stupid part of him wanted to pout and argue—but yeah, he was not keen on showing his face back there again. Or getting killed because of one little itty-bitty failure. And as much as stabbing the guy and all his guards would be cathartic—not worth it. Just not worth it. He fell face first onto the bed Rinna was sitting on. “Not my fuck up,” he said, muffled by the pillows.

The creature slunk under the bed.

“Yes, it was,” she said.

* * *

Zevran sat against the wall the next day, legs out, watching the pink twilight clouds through the window.

The creature sat next to him, companionably.

This was probably better than having to run around the mark’s house—but oh Maker was it _boring_. It was just sitting in place “guarding” the creature. (Or rather, not getting in Rinna and Taliesen’s way and not going on a grumpy pub crawl either—but he did appreciate the face-saving excuse Rinna had provided_. Somewhat_.) But it was so boring.

He turned the creature. “You know, I don’t think I ever got your name. I am Zevran.” He held out a hand to shake, mostly as a joke, or a performance.

The creature wrapped a tentacle around his hand, and shook it. With another tentacle, they spelled out the letters ‘M-O-P’.

“Your name is Mop? A fine name, I’d say.”

It shrugged noncommittally, and let go of his hand.

Zevran turned back to the window, and lasted all of thirty seconds before the tedium compelled him to open his mouth again. “Are you bored? I’m bored.”

Mop nodded.

“Any ideas for entertainment.” He waved a hand at the spartan room. “We could play I Spy—”

Mop held one tentacle up in a ring, and thrusted another tentacle through it.

Zevran laughed. “Why not?” I mean, it would definitely be entertaining, and how often did you have a willing tentacle creature? It’d be a story to tell the new recruits to horrify and fascinate them, as well. Those were always the best stories. And again: willing tentacle creature. That was a rare opportunity that he would regret not grabbing by the horns. If Mop had been sent to seduce and kill him, he will feel the appropriate amount of shame when Rinna and Taliesen find his corpse and declare him the worst assassin ever. But otherwise—look, he’d take what fun he can get.

Mop clambered over onto his lap.

Zevran raised an eyebrow. “Oh, eager I see.”

Mop paused and shrivelled up, abashed.

Zevran ran a finger along a tentacle, comfortingly. “I like that.” It was true—and he didn’t want to send them into conniptions of shame, or something, because where would be the fun in that?

Mop relaxed and slipped under his pteruges—and Zevran was grateful that he hadn’t bothered with smalls, and that the pteruges was all he was wearing on his lower half. Mop tickled and caressed his thighs. Liquid beaded and spread over their tentacles, letting them slip and glide over his skin.

“That’s convenient.” He picked up a tentacle, and licked it to taste it. Salty—but a pleasant saltiness, not a strong one.

Mop shivered, and thrust the tentacle in his hand forward.

“Oh, so you’re getting something out of this. I feel _ever_ so taken advantage of.” He licked it again.

Mop flicked a tentacle where thigh met groin. They rested tip of another against the base of his cock, and one against the rim of his arse, and paused for confirmation.

“Be my guest.” It came out muffled, and with more vowels than consonants, but in his defence his tongue was both stuck out and busy at the time .

Mop wrapped a tentacle around Zevran’s cock. They didn’t pump up and down, but twisted and curled and flicked.

It was hard to follow the movement, hard to predict where the waves of sensation would come from. Zev was half soft, but hardening quickly.

A tentacle slid into his arse, its slick sweat easing the way.

Zevran was practiced at relaxing his muscles, at letting things just enter, and he was thankful for that. While the tip of the tentacle was narrow, as thin as a pinkie finger if not thinner, it widened quickly past the first few inches, to a decent sized cock-width and then a bit more.

Mop worked the tentacle in, past those first few inches and then to where it widened.

It was _delicious. _The stretch and fullness of it, the way the tip still had room to flick while further down he was filled up as Mop gently stroked in and out, the sharp and shifting pleasure of how the tentacle teasing his cock curled and twisted.

He stopped licking the tentacle he held, and took it in his mouth.

It twisted and twitched, tickling tooth and tongue.

Mop’s whole body shivered, even the tentacles around his cock and in his arse, and _my that was **lovely**_.

Zev’s hips lifted, with a mind of their own. His arms strained against the wall to hold his weight, but he didn’t care. What was happening inside him was divine and he couldn’t focus on anything else.

Mop stopped after a second, their body getting used to the shock.

Zevran slid back down the wall. It would be churlish to ask them to do it again, seeing as it was involuntary, and to ask would require him to stop doing what caused it in the first place. Still tempting though. …May as well just try to provoke that reaction again. He licked along the tentacle with greater tenacity.

Mop regained their coordination, and continued curling around his cock, and stroking in and out in a coherent rhythm.

A tentacle rested on an arse cheek, a gentle pressure and a question.

Zevran slid the tentacle out of his mouth. Trying to fit two tentacles in would be—let’s say “adventurous”. But what else was he doing this for, if not for the adventure? “I can take more, if you want that.”

The tentacle stayed still. The rest of them slowed. Mop _wanted_—but Mop didn’t know if they could _get, _and practically thrummed with it.

He’d done something similar before, with Taliesen and another Crow friend of theirs. It had been fun—as well as very, _very_ awkward. Humans and elves had this unfortunate tendency to have _limbs_, and those limbs had an even more unfortunate tendency to get in the way. And they hadn’t worked out how to arrange themselves that didn’t leave one or more of them half crushed.

And when the Maker had designed the cock, he had designed it without a taper, and when Zevran went to the Maker’s side he was going to have _words_ with him about that design flaw.

They had managed it. _He_ had managed it, and it was an achievement he would be proud of to his dying days—but being able to do it while only have to arrange two bodies, and one that didn’t have limbs as such at that, and the relevant body parts actually having a taper so that things could actually practically work their way in? That sounded like a fun time.

And being able to make a tentacle creature’s day, if not life, by doing that? That sounded even better.

His voice dropped. “I _want_ more.”

A thrill of excitement passed through Mop. They stood taller, more alert, and the curling of the tentacle around Zev’s cock grew more energetic. Mop worked the second tentacle into his arse, just the tip, sliding until there was maybe two inches of it in, just where it started to widen out to something significant.

The stretch grew—but it was still manageable, fun, not pain or effort or anything like that. Zev took the tentacle back into his mouth.

Mop shivered again.

Zevran ended up half off the floor again, bracing against the wall. It had been good before—but combined with the added stretch and fullness, the way that the second tentacle just slipped—it was a lot.

The second tentacle slipped another inch in. Mop curled another tentacle around the base of his cock, holding tight while the other slipped and stroked.

Zevran tried to say ‘thank you,’ but with his mouth full it came out as a moan. He wanted this to last. He may have still been a spring chicken, as some would say—but he had limits. (It was quite unfortunate.)

He gently lowered himself back down to the ground, his hips trying to fight their way back up.

The first tentacle in his arse stroked in and out, like it had before, though maybe a little gentler and subtler. Each stroke slowly pushed more of the second tentacle in.

This was where the effort started. Even if all he was doing was ‘just relaxing’—it was a relaxation that took work and skill and art. The fullness grew and became a burn. It wasn’t pain, or if it was, it was pain-turned-to-pleasure.

Mop shook inside him, trying hard to suppress their shivers.

The second tentacle finally slipped all the way in. Both tentacles stroked in and out—going further out than they had before, but still slow, and gentle, and each stroke working both further in.

Zevran looked down.

A bulge moved in his stomach, growing and shrinking in time with Mop’s thrusts.

He could actually see Mop inside of him. They’d gone in far enough that they were visible, through muscle and fat and viscera.

Zevran suppressed a laugh. It wasn’t funny—but laughter was the only response he could think of to this. He was proud rather than amused—proud of what he’d managed to get his body to do, proud of what they’d achieved together, even if the visual affect was a little silly and ‘_I didn’t think bodies could do that, I’m pretty sure they’re not _meant _to do that.’_

Mop stroked his cock faster—he wasn’t sure if Mop _could_ come, but it wasn’t an unreasonable assumption, and it wasn’t an unreasonable assumption that they were close.

Zevran would like to say he wasn’t, that he could do this all day—but his pleasure was growing, boiling and pooling inside his stomach, building to a sharp peak. Even if the tentacle around his cock would stop him from coming, it wouldn’t stop him from wanting to.

The curling tentacle moved faster, squeezed harder. The tentacles in his arse pushed in further, even further than the ludicrous depths they were already in.

Zev’s back slammed into the wall. Even if he wanted to, he couldn’t stop his hips from rising, and besides that, he _didn’t _want to. His arms and legs strained from holding him up, but he didn’t care, all he could feel and pay attention to was the pleasure.

The tentacle around the base of his cock let go—

And he came almost immediately. It rushed through him, fast and hot and sharp and _oh so good_.

He fell to the floor and back to reality with a happy sigh.

Mop slowly worked their way out of his arse, one tentacle at a time, more slippery and ticklish now than fun.

The door opened.

Zev and Mop turned with a start.

Rinna wiped the blood off her arms with a cloth, checking that she had actually properly cleaned herself.

Taliesen stared at them at them, a spatter of blood painting his nose, with the wide eyed, blank expression of someone who would have _opinions_ about this once they had properly assessed the situation. He breathed in sharply.

Rinna looked up at the sound, and then looked at Zevran and Mop with an expression of resigned disappointment. 

Zevran smiled. Not sheepish—to look sheepish would imply embarrassment, and embarrassment was a weakness. And also, he wasn’t _that _embarrassed. He’d fucked a tentacle creature, and they hadn’t, and that wasn’t something to be ashamed of, that was a point of pride “I can expl—”

Taliesen slammed the door shut.

Mop finally pulled themselves all the way out, looking deflated and possibly mortified.

Well, few creatures were as utterly shameless as Zevran was. “Don’t worry,” he said, conspiratorially, “If they didn’t actually want to see that, they would have knocked.”


End file.
